Our Serendipitous Paths
by ColieMacKenzie
Summary: Kate Beckett wakes in a world where nothing is as she knows it to be. A season 4, AU story.
1. 1 ride to nowhere

_**AN:** To the approximately two readers who ever managed to open this when it was up the first time (I'm looking at you, intl08 ;-)), you may want to give this another brief glance, as I made a couple of minor changes for continuity's sake. _

**Our Serendipitous Paths**

_Kate Beckett wakes in a world where nothing is as she knows it to be. A season 4, AU story. _

* * *

><p><strong>1: ride to nowhere<strong>

Kate dropped into the hard plastic bench on the subway, leaned her head back toward the window with a sigh. It had been a long day, an even longer week. She was satisfied; her cases had wrapped up neatly, but she had been going for fourteen hours straight for the past six days. She was jittery from too much coffee, mentally drained from her case load; she couldn't wait to get home and into her bed, sleep for twelve hours, then spend her weekend relaxing, catching up on her reading.

She only had a few stations to go, was trying to keep her eyes open but she was so tired and the monotonous rattle of the Subway was lulling her, numbing her. Her limbs were getting heavy. She should've allowed Castle to take her home.

That was her last conscious thought before exhaustion won out, and she fell asleep.

* * *

><p>It was the standstill that finally woke her, the rattle and clanking having subsided to leave behind a deafening silence inside the subway car. Her heart was pounding from the shock of waking up; she must have been sleeping very deeply. Kate looked around, trying to find her bearings, finding the car completely deserted save for her. She checked her watch; it was just past midnight.<p>

When had it gotten this late? And where was she? She glanced outside the window. Pelham Bay Park. Shocked, she realized she'd ridden all the way out to the Bronx, was at the terminal stop of her line.

Across the platform, another number 6 train was lined up, heading back toward Manhattan, its doors still open, and Kate grabbed her bag, rushed out of the subway car and into the one across from her. She plopped down onto a blue plastic bench, and dug into her bag to have her gun within easy reach.

This was eerie. She remembered the stories about Pelham Bay Park, when the large park full of wilderness and secluded areas was a preferred dumping ground for grisly murdered bodies in the early 90ies. Things might be different these days, but she found that the voices of the dead never seemed to stop lingering. The station was deserted, nobody was on this train either or on the platform, an unusual occurrence anywhere in New York even this late at night. She shuddered, mentally willed the train to leave quickly, and bring her home.

Finally, the train lurched, began its trip south, and a few travelers boarded at the next station. Kate relaxed a little, unearthed a book from within her bag. One eye and ear still on alert, she opened the book to where she last earmarked it, and began reading, trying to keep herself awake this time during the hour-long trip back to her SoHo neighborhood.

* * *

><p>When she finally made it home she was so tired that she had to lean against the doorjamb while she tried to open the door to her apartment. But when she inserted the key, it did not slide all the way inside the lock. She jiggled the key, tried again, but nothing happened. She could not turn it in any direction within the lock. She pulled the key back out, scrutinized it, but all the teeth were intact, and she was holding the right one. She looked at her door to double-check the apartment number, but found that she was on her floor and at the correct door, just like she thought she was. How strange. She attempted it again, more forcefully this time, but it would not budge.<p>

She leaned against the wall for a moment, trying to think through her confusion, when she heard steps coming from inside the loft. She quickly reached for her gun, braced her body in a safe stance.

"Who is this?" A sleepy female voice called out from inside the apartment.

Out of habit, Kate answered, "Detective Beckett, NYPD." Trying to ignore the fact that she was announcing herself at her own place to some stranger.

The door opened a sliver, the safety chain securely in place. Beckett held up her badge for the woman to see, and then the chain was pulled back, the door opened wider.

"What's wrong Detective?" The woman inside her loft asked, an edge of fear in her voice. "What happened?" She was roughly in her mid-forties, short, and wearing an unflattering green fleece robe that she was clutching closed in almost a death grip.

Kate felt her knees buckling, her head swimming in disbelief. The short glance inside was revealing a completely unfamiliar place. None of her furniture was there, none of her artwork… This was not her apartment. What was going on?

"Ehm…" Kate stuttered, at a loss for words. "Nothing ma'am." She looked past her into the loft again. "Don't… I'm sorry, do you live here?"

"Yes," the woman nodded affirmatively. "Coming on two years."

The nausea came on quickly, she had to breathe through her nose, clutching the doorjamb next to her so hard that her knuckles turned white.

"Are you alright Detective?" The woman questioned, more concerned now, and Kate tried to calm herself, focus. As if she was on the job.

"Yeah… Thank you." She straightened her stance. "I'm sorry to disturb you. Just a mix-up."

* * *

><p>In the small lobby she leaned against the wall across from the mailboxes. She pinched herself in the arm, hard, but it really hurt, so she must not be dreaming. She felt off-kilter, she had no home, no place to go, her head fuzzy and her heart lonely.<p>

Castle. His image flashed into her mind like a revelation; this evening was so bizarre, she wasn't above being melodramatic. But he would listen, and come up with a story, and let her sleep in his guestroom. She supposed he'd let her sleep in his bed too, if that's what she wanted, though sleep would probably be furthest from their mind… Her tummy quickened with images of midnight blue satin sheets, sliding along their naked bodies, and she attempted to shake it off, clear her brain, breathed through it, tried to reign in her galloping imagination.

She dug her phone out of her bag, pulled up her contact list. But scrolling to the C's, there was no listing for 'Castle.' She stared at her phone, dumbfounded. This couldn't be. She skimmed down to the R's quickly, just in case, even though she knew for certain that she had him saved as Castle. But there was no Richard, no Rick either. Her insides fluttered, erratic now, panicky. She tried to focus, cobbled together his number from memory, thanking heavens for her almost photographic ability to remember facts. She dialed, waiting for the ringing on the other end that never came.

'_We are sorry, the number you have called does not exist.' _

Kate pulled the phone away from her ear, gaped at the screen. Cold unfurled inside of her and she hit 'end,' pulled up the number once more, called again.

'_We are sorry, the number you have called does not exist.'_

She sank to the ground, no longer able to stand, tears welling up in her eyes. The feeling of desolation cold and heavy inside her. It had been a long time that she had felt this alone, suffered this particular brand of sorrow.

Eventually, she lifted her phone again, pulled up the only other contact that made sense at this point. At least that was unchanged, the name appearing on the screen. Her fingers shaking, she hit the call button.

The phone was picked up after the third ring, and she exhaled, tried to stop her voice from wavering.

"Dad?"

* * *

><p>Her father would have come pick her up immediately, but she opted to take a cab over to his house instead of waiting for him in this building, despite the significant fare that she would have to expect.<p>

He was worried of course; she never called him this late, and her voice was usually steadier, but she had kept the conversation brief. What was she going to say, when she didn't understand any of this herself? So she had merely asked if she could stay the night, claiming that there were some issues with her apartment.

She sat slumped in the back seat of the cab, her mind now curiously blank. She watched the city flash by the window, the blur of lights and trees and the shapes of buildings, changing from the metal and glass of Manhattan into the brick and fences of the more residential areas.

When the car pulled to a stop in front of her father's house, she paid the driver. Hoping her credit card would work in this strange reality she had found herself in, but oddly enough, that went without a glitch.

She stumbled onto the sidewalk, tried to steady her legs to walk up the cobblestone walkway toward the front door. Her dad had probably watched out for the cab because she was about to knock when the door swung open for her.

And then Kate felt the blood rushing through her head, thrumming in her ears. Tears raced to her eyes, her knees buckled, but before she fell she was caught safely by limber, familiar arms. A long lost, oh so familiar scent.

"Mom?"


	2. 2 surreal reality

**2: surreal reality**

Out of every other bizarre turn of this night, now she was sure she must be dreaming. This couldn't be real, none of it. But here she was with her face buried against her mother's neck, inhaling the familiar scent of her skin, apple blossoms and vanilla and warmth. Her arms wrapped around her waist, holding on tightly so that this fluke, this apparition, would not vanish from her grasp. Until she'd had her fill. Because it didn't matter, dream, twilight zone, brain injury, whatever this was, she was going to take what she could get.

"Mom," she sobbed against her mother's neck, and Johanna ran her fingertips up and down the long lines of her back.

"Shhhh, Baby," she murmured into her daughter's hair. Johanna glanced at her husband, who moved around the two women to close the front door, then shrugged his shoulders. He didn't have any more details on what might be going on with their child.

"What's the matter, Katie, hmm?" Johanna slowly pulled away from their embrace, held her daughter by the shoulders so she could look at her face. Tears were streaming down her cheeks, and she looked… absolutely shell-shocked. Worried, she ran her thumbs along under Kate's eyes, swiping away the moisture.

Kate could only stare, her heart thumping loudly in her ears. That same face she remembered, looking back at her with concern in her eyes. Those eyes so much like her own, swirls of color that would change with every emotion, like those mood rings that were so popular when she was nine. More green now, in the shadows cast by the milky light of the overhead lamp, speckled with only a few flecks of brown. More lines around her eyes, and the corners of her mouth. A bit more weight on her, visible along the lines of her cheeks, her chin, her waist. But healthy, just… older. She wore her hair shorter too, cut to a bob, the edges of her hair caressing her neck with every turn of her head.

"Did you and Josh have a fight again? Did you break up?" Her mother stroked her fingers through the ends of Kate's hair, along her shoulders, rearranging the tumbling curls, and Kate wavered on her legs, leaned toward her mom's touch. It took her a few moment to capture the words, make sense of what she was asked, still enraptured in that strange reverie of being touched by her mother. Get to see what she looked like older, get to _feel_ her touches again. She had missed her. Oh how much she had missed her!

Wait, Josh? Oh… so in _this life_, too. Or whatever this was. "No," she shook her head, "not that."

But what was _that_? What was she going to say? She had no idea. And this woman – her mother! And her father too, they did not appear as if anything was out of the ordinary. Like this was normal, the three of them together, only with the added worry for her, _Katie_, etched onto their faces. She grasped for something, anything, that would put them at ease, without her sounding like she was losing her mind. Maybe she was losing her mind.

"Just been a long week." She reached for her mom's hand, squeezed it with hers. "A really long week."

* * *

><p>They sent her to bed then, to get some rest, and she walked up the stairs to her old bedroom in a daze, trailing behind her mother. At the door, Johanna ushered her inside, with talk of fresh towels on the dresser and good night and sweet dreams and a kiss to her cheek, and all of it was too fast for Kate, entirely too <em>normal<em>, when she wanted to just cling to her mom, not let her go again. But Johanna was already padding down the hallway to the master bedroom on the other end, soundless steps of bare feet on carpet, and Kate could only watch her walk away, her breaths a stutter in her chest, her heart clenched.

She took off her clothes in the small en-suite bathroom, stepped under the hot spray of the shower. Her parents had added the bathroom for her twelfth birthday, after she had pleaded and begged to have her own, and it still showed the signs of her developing personality. She had loved the ocean even then, and she and her mom had painted the walls a pale blue, had picked tiles decorated with wave patterns, and hung up pictures of white fluffy baby seals and coral reefs and colorful fish that ran along the sides of the walls. Shells from the ocean that she had collected over the years were still strewn onto the counter and some of the shelves, but otherwise they no longer held the clutter of funky-colored make-up and hair products that had accompanied her teenage years.

She lathered shampoo into her hair, trying to scrub away the long day and too many hours of subway grime. She rinsed, then added conditioner, musing. Realizing that those memories had already lost some of their sad sting, only because she was granted this glimpse at her mother, this hug, this touch. This was all so… surreal.

She lathered her skin with soap, ran her hands over her shoulders, down her arms, across her torso. And paused, bewildered, then skimmed her fingers along the valley between her breasts again. But she only encountered smooth skin. The puckered rim of her bullet wound. It was gone. She gasped, pushed against the side of her breast, examined underneath, but the long thin scar that had traveled along her rib cage had disappeared as well. Her skin smooth, unmarred. She leaned against the tiles of the shower stall, breathed heavily. How was this…?

Was this… real? Kate started gulping for air, her heart pounding. Her mother was really in the bedroom across the hall? Sleeping peacefully; healthy? Alive? Her fingers clenched; she felt the grip of an oncoming panic, the rush of blood, the race of nerves tingling along her veins, her limbs trembling. The heat of the water too much, the light too bright.

She focused on her breathing, like she had been taught in her therapy sessions, slowing the in and out of air through her lungs. Shook her arms and legs to relax her muscles.

And then she just moved. Quickly rinsed out her hair, turned off the water, toweled off. She needed to see, she just _had_ to see again. She grabbed a worn pair of leggings and a large tee shirt out of her old dresser. She needed to go, _right now_, see if she was really there. Her mom, in her bed, alive. She threw on the shirt, stepped into the pants, and then she ran, just ran, along the corridor toward her parents' bedroom. There, she paused at the closed door for a moment, and listened. But all she could make out was the low cadenced snoring of her father. Carefully, she opened the door.

There she was. Breathing. "Mom?" Kate whispered into the darkness.

"Katie?" Johanna moved under the covers, turned around. "Are you okay honey?"

Kate crept closer to her mother's side, just stood there for a moment, kneaded her fingers. But Johanna seemed to understand, and lifted the comforter.

And she did not care, it didn't matter that she was a 32-year old woman, right now she just wanted her mom. With a shy smile, Kate climbed in and snuggled into her mother's arms.

Johanna kissed her forehead. "We haven't had a sleepover in a long time," she chuckled. "Not since you were fourteen and had watched that horror movie, Freddy something…?"

"Yeah, 'Nightmare on Elm Street,'" Kate recalled.

"At your sleepover, even though I had warned you, and then you couldn't sleep, you were so scared."

"Yeah I believe your exact words were, 'I told you so!'" She giggled. Then she smiled wistfully. "But you let me sleep in your bed anyway, and held me all night." She buried her face against her mother's neck, took in the sleepy scent of her skin.

Johanna sighed wistfully, ran her hands over Kate's back in soothing motions. "Get some rest Katie," she comforted her daughter.

Kate was asleep in an instant.

* * *

><p>She awoke to silence and the lingering scent of her mother on the pillow. She scooted up against the headboard, rubbed the grit out of her eyes. Looking around sleepily, she tried to hang on to her lingering dream, tried to make sense of her surroundings. She couldn't tell anymore, what was dream, what reality.<p>

There was a note left on the nightstand.

_Katie,_

_Had an appointment with a client at Bedford Hills. Coffee for you in the kitchen._

_Brunch tomorrow? _

_Love, Mom._

She took the note, reverently traced the loops of letters with the tip of her index finger. _Mom._ She smiled, folded the note into a little square, and pushed it between the elastic waistband of the leggings and her skin.

Then she swung her legs out of the bed and got up, feeling oddly lightweight despite still not having any idea what was happening to her life. She decided she might as well go with it; if this was all one long drawn-out dream, at least it would be a good one.

Her father was at the table, reading the paper when she entered the kitchen.

"Hey Dad," she greeted him, kissed him on the cheek, then went to pour herself a cup of coffee.

"Hey Katie. Feeling better?"

"Yeah," she paused for a moment, her hip leaning against the counter. But she did. She felt… lighter. "Much better." She poured coffee creamer into her cup, smiled at herself when she realized it was her mom's favorite creamer, French vanilla, the kind her dad never again bought once she was gone.

She sat down at the table perpendicular to him, and wordlessly, he handed her the 'International' section of the paper. Huh, she supposed in _this life_, that was her preferred part. Usually, she always reached for 'National' pages first. Occupational hazard. She shrugged, went with it. If you can't beat them…

"What are your plans today, Dad?" She began a conversation while skimming the top part of the paper. The date matched _her_ time line; it was simply the next day from yesterday, correct date, correct year. So it wasn't time travel that she'd experienced. Nor had she gone back in time, not that she had considered that, seeing as how the mirror had still shown the features and skin of her 32-year old self, thin forehead lines and beginning crinkles around her eyes and all. These thoughts made her roll her eyes at herself, made her think of Castle. Usually it would be he who threw around the more far-fetched theories. Her heart stumbled at the thought, remembering that she had not been able to reach him last night.

"Going over to the woodshop, meeting some of the guys," her dad provided, and she looked over at him from the side. His smile was peaceful. So he was doing the mentoring program again, like he used to so many years ago, training young men in carpentry and teach some life skills along the way. Or was it that he was _still_ doing that, in _this universe_?

"Your mom will be back late," he continued. "Do you want me to drive you home when I leave?"

_Home. _She supposed that was as good a plan as any, seeing as how she didn't even know where she lived. She tried to clear to cobwebs from her mind; this was just too surreal.

"Yes, thanks Dad." She should go and try to find out what happened to her, try to find clues as to what was going on here. She grabbed her coffee cup, got up to get ready, but paused at the door.

"Do you still have the spare key for my place?" She had always given her father a key, just in case, and so she hoped this was true for _this reality_ too.

"Sure. Did you lose yours?"

That was one way to put it. "Yeah."

* * *

><p>Kate was quiet in the car. She leaned her temple against the cool glass of the window, watched the world whirl by. The same city she's always lived in, unchanged from how she knew it yesterday. All the same… except for her personal reality. She sighed, watched her breath fog up the glass. Pressing her finger to the moisture, she swirled the tip through the spot, K-A-T-E.<p>

"You doing your research today?" Jim asked, pulling her out of her reverie.

"Research?" She definitely needed to research, find out what was going on.

"Yeah don't you usually prepare for your courses on Saturday?" Courses? She was losing her grasp of this conversation. She really needed some quiet time, needed to figure this out; her thoughts were swirling. So she just nodded her head, went along.

Jim pulled the car to the curb, put it in park. She glanced out the window, and found herself staring up at her old building. The one with the loft that blew up with her in it.

"Oh, here's the extra key Katie." Her father held out the slim metal key to her, and she reached for it, folded it in her palms. He held on to her hand for a moment, folded his larger one around her fist.

"Are you sure you're okay?" He looked at her, worry etched into the lines of his face. Stroked his thumb along the soft skin between her thumb and index finger. "You seem out of sorts."

It was almost an ache, thumping inside of her, to say something, share her confusion, but she couldn't. She could not put this on her father, _this_ man, in _this reality_, who had his wife, who knew nothing of the pain and suffering they had both endured. So she forced a smile on her face, hoped she could make it convincing.

"I'm fine. Just… lost in thought." She squeezed his hand, then pulled away with the key in her grasp. "Don't worry Daddy."

Kate watched him drive away. She didn't think she had ever felt this lost before.


	3. 3 bewildering discoveries

**AN: **My lovely readers and reviewers: You are all so fabulous! Thank you so very much for your excited messages and enthusiasm – you make this worthwhile! I'm having fun! I hope you will too… :)

* * *

><p><strong>3: bewildering discoveries<strong>

She decided that she needed to approach it like she did her job. She needed to collect evidence.

The key slid in easily and the door to her old loft swung open just like it used to, before it had been destroyed two years previously. She stepped inside almost reluctantly. It was entirely possible that she might live with someone. Josh, maybe. An unpleasant shiver crawled up her spine. It was too strange to imagine living with somebody that she had broken up with almost nine months previously.

But the apartment lay silent and so she slowly wandered around.

It was as if she recognized parts of herself, but the overall atmosphere did not really feel like her. This was a more modern, smoother space; a lot of light colors, some furniture pieces with white high-gloss veneers that sparkled brightly in the sunlight streaming in through the windows. There were a lot of bookshelves, packed with literature, and more books stacked at various surfaces throughout the space. At least that part she could identify with. Hardwood floors; only a white plushy area rug under the coffee table that was an understated piece in black and glass, framed by a large leather sectional that reminded her a lot of Castle's. Her heart skidded. She shook it off.

This was less eclectic than her usual choices for furnishings and decor. The artwork provided the flashes of color on the walls; it was tasteful, matching; _un-messy_.

It was beautiful. It just wasn't…her.

Of course it wasn't. This wasn't her! What was she thinking?

She leaned her back against the nearest wall, squeezed her eyes shut, and took a couple of deep breaths, trying to quell to onset of panicked flutters. Was she going crazy? How was it possible that she suddenly found herself in a completely different life, with no memories, no clues?

Right, clues. She needed to focus, try to find clues, evidence. Something. She had to find something.

Slowly she blinked her eyes open to the white glare of the sparkling apartment. Pushing herself off the wall, she walked toward where she knew the bedroom to be. She would start with the personal stuff.

The bedroom was inviting; the atmosphere cozier than the living space, with one wall behind the bed offset from the others in a cross between dark lavender and purple paint; black furniture, a white comforter with accents and throw pillows that matched the wall. Another white rug (the woman did like her whites) at the foot of the bed.

She sat on the bed for a moment, bounced on the mattress. Not bad. She supposed she could sleep on that just fine. She was relieved to realize that nothing surrounding her indicated that someone else, a man, might be living with her. Everything was clean and uncluttered. She liked her things orderly, but seriously, she wondered if this woman (_she?_) had a cleaning service.

Eyeing the closet doors, she jumped off the bed again, her curiosity piqued. She opened the large doors to survey. Okay, so, this did look more like her. She still had her many coats. She flipped through the hangars. Correction, she had many coats. The styles matched her; to her surprise she found that some were even the exact same pieces, but others were just similar. Pea coats, leather jackets, trench coats…. She stopped at one hanger, fingered the material. This dark purple wool coat was gorgeous. She pulled it closer, was tempted to try it on but this was not a clothing store; this was her _life_, for crying out loud. With an annoyed headshake, she pushed the hanger back, turned to the rest of the shelving and rails full of hangers.

She had a lot more suits. Black, a variety of grey pieces, pinstripes thick and thin, some in tan, a couple were an almost white, even a beautiful red one. Whatever she did in_ this life_ apparently required her to wear suits much more frequently. She wondered briefly whether she might be a lawyer, but that did not quite fit with the comments her dad made earlier about 'courses.' She flipped through the shelves. Shirts, blouses, pants, jeans… all those fit within her basic range of style. It was such a conundrum; looking at herself, but also not.

She sat down on the floor of the closet in front of the rest of the shelving. Ah, here they were, her shoes. She was relieved to see the range of high heels, boots and pumps and everything in between, in ranges of colors, quite a few high-quality, expensive pieces. Just like she was used to. She felt relieved; knew she was going to need those to keep standing taller through whatever was going to happen with her.

* * *

><p>Next, she was tackling the office. A large white (what a surprise) corner desk occupied a substantial area at the western wall of the loft. The office space was separated from the main room by large bookshelves. In fact, there were a lot more shelves, a lot more books than she used to have, and her collection had already been extensive.<p>

She opened the largest drawer, which, judging by its size, she suspected to be a filing cabinet. She skimmed the labels, once again impressed by the order and discipline in this place. What had Esposito called her once, a control freak? That seemed rather fitting now.

She picked out the file labeled 'taxes' first. Flipping through the paper, she discovered the latest W-2*, skimmed it. Her heart immediately started hammering when she came across the information she'd been searching for.

_Employer: New York University. _

She… what? She worked for NYU?

She sat on the floor, the paper sailing to her lap as she contemplated this latest twist. How? In what capacity would _she_ be working at a university?

The computer! On a hunch she jumped back on her feet, turned on the Mac sitting in the corner of the desk. Maybe there was work email access set up that could provide her with more clues as to her occupation. Pacing, she waited for the screen to illuminate, and the desktop sprang right up. No password protection. She was relieved but also wondered if this woman just wasn't worried about anything!

She found that it was simpler to follow the links and not think about this in relation to herself. This was some person she was researching, just… someone else. Right?

She opened up the email application, found a couple of email addresses set up, one of which indeed read _.edu_. She dropped on the desk chair, stared at the program.

Twenty-five unread emails. None of the names were familiar. She clicked on the top one and it popped open immediately.

_Prof. Beckett,_

_I have enclosed my assignment…_

Uhm, what? She stopped reading after that. Professor…

Her brain in research mode, she clicked on the internet browser, opened Google. If that was true, surely some information would pop if she simply searched her name.

The first entry on top read _'__NYU French Faculty Kate Beckett'_and a further click landed her on a profile, _her profile_, at the New York University's Department of French. Her own face smiled innocently back at her from the top left corner of the page, with her stats listed next to it.

_Kate Beckett_

_Associate Professor of French, Comparative Literature_

_Ph.D., Stanford._

Underneath it listed office address, email, then her areas of research (apparently, these included 19th century French literature and society, cultural studies and cultural history of France), and a list of fellowships and publications.

She leaned back against the back of the chair. Her breath came out in short breaths; her heart thudded dreadfully against her ribs. She couldn't… She just couldn't… How was this _possible_?

She jumped up, away from the offending image on the computer screen, stumbled, and bumped her shoulder against the nearest bookshelf. Wincing, she rubbed her shoulder blade and turned toward the shelf. Spines upon spines greeted her, a veritable wall of French writers and titles, closing in on her, _Staël Constant Lamartine Hugo Mallarmé Baudelaire Rimbaud Stendhal Dumas Flaubert Maupassant Duras Nerval Sand Laforgue,_ her eyes crisscrossed along the backs of the books, then she realized, the OCD woman that supposedly was her even had her books alphabetized…

She threw her hands to her face, she didn't want to see this, couldn't… she couldn't… She had to… Get away… Not see this…

She backed out of the office, away from the offending book shelves and the computer screen snickering at her and those files… stumbled backwards, her socks slipping on the hardwood and she almost lost her footing but could catch herself, clenching her fingers around the edge of another built-in shelf. She held on, flailed a little, turning more toward the shelf, steadied her feet, coming face to face with another wall of books.

And there, right in front of her eyes, it shone at her, large letters gleaming white against colorful hardcover spines:

_RICHARD CASTLE_

Repeating over and over again in a long line, book after book, shiny and familiar and heartwarming.

He existed! It washed over her like a warm spring shower, relief and excitement, he was alive, there was a Rick Castle in _this world_; he existed.

With shaking fingers she reached out for the book that used to be one of her most prized possessions, the one that had blown up along with everything else two years ago, her copy of _"Storm Rising."_ Carefully she flipped the cover open, but only white space gleamed at her; there was no personal note _To Kate_, no signature by Richard Castle. Apparently, she had never gone to have her book signed, even though she appeared to be fan enough to have read all of them.

Sighing, she replaced the book in its empty slot, then skimmed the titles. His entire Storm series was there, all his stand alone works, two titles she did not recognize… No Heat books. She had to fight the tears, didn't expect it to hit her so hard but it did. There was no Nikki Heat. She didn't know why she was surprised, but it…hurt.

She just… She wanted to see him. She needed his crazy theories, his humor, his smile. His quirked eyebrows and his coffees and teasing jokes and… She missed him.

Her heart was thumping loudly in her ears. He existed! Maybe she just needed to find him. Maybe he could help her. She hung on to the thought, clung to the hope that maybe, just maybe, he would know her after all.

She slipped on shoes, a coat, grabbed her purse, and was out the door and on her way in minutes.

* * *

><p>She was a bundle of nerves when she arrived at his building.<p>

Eduardo was manning the desk in the lobby, as always, but this time, no flicker of recognition crossed the doorman's face, no smile for her when she swung open the doors. She hung back; she hadn't quite thought through how she was going to go about gathering the information. Her thoughts had been flittering all over the place during the cab ride over, too confused to come up with a battle plan.

And now she stood in his lobby like one of his stalker fans. If it even _was_ his lobby. She dug for her phone, pretended to make a phone call in the corner while she attempted to channel her inner police officer. Geez Beckett, pull yourself together!

She dug into her purse, wrapped her fingers around her badge. Then she realized that she could not flash that at Eduardo, could not introduce herself as Detective Beckett if she was not in fact Detective Beckett. She dropped the badge back into the bag with a sigh. She would just have to make up an excuse, use her smile and eyelashes to her advantage.

She moved toward the doorman but she had barely taken two steps when the elevator dinged upon its arrival at the ground floor, and strolling out comes…

Castle.

Her heart thumped out of her chest, skidded along the marble floor, toward him. Rick…

With his arm around a woman.

A blonde woman. With huge black sunglasses covering the majority of her face, her hair bouncing in annoyingly happy curls.

He smiled at the blonde, that huge Rick Castle grin that was usually only reserved for her, Kate… She gulped heavily, her eyes welling with tears. No…

But he happily chatted with his female companion, waved a friendly Hi to Eduardo, and then they strolled right past her.

His eyes flitted over Kate for a second; she held her breath. Castle, please… But he did not recognize her, just walked right by, and out the large doors, and onto the sidewalk, and into his town car.

Walked away from her.

* * *

><p><em><span>To Be Continued…<span>_

_*To everybody who does not recognize the term, your **W-2** is a federal tax form in the USA that is issued by your employer and states how much you were paid in a year (and incidentally, how much was deducted for taxes._

_**OCD** is short for Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder._

* * *

><p><strong>AN: <strong>I keep forgetting to point this out, but I do have a twitter account **(at)nic6879** as well as a tumblr now **nic6879(dot)tumblr(dot)com **and it'd be great if you want to follow me! You may also be informed sooner about updates if this website has issues again. :)


	4. 4: jarring truths

**AN: **First, my apologies for the long delay since the last chapter – really, it's been too long for my liking too! I'm trying to squirrel away as much time for writing this as I can, but there just isn't a lot of it. But I do have a plan of where I'm going with this, I promise! :)

My dear readers, you are all fabulous! Thank you for the many lovely and excited reviews you have graced me with! It's wonderful to hear how much you all love this story, and your responses have left me both amazed and humbled. I hope you will continue to enjoy this as we travel onward.

* * *

><p><strong>4: jarring truths<strong>

The blaring of her phone jolted her, the vibrations rattling against her palm, up her arm.

She jerked, found herself still rooted to the spot just inside the door of his building, staring at the path Castle had disappeared on. Shaking, dazed, she lifted her arm. Stared at the screen, her brain foggy; she couldn't focus…

The phone screamed again.

She blinked, trying to clear the white shimmering veil from her eyes. Dark, wavy hair, a familiar smile appeared on the screen.

_JOSH_.

Good grief, like her day wasn't already bad enough!

Her stomach clenched. What was she supposed to say to him? She had no idea…

Another ring pierced the silence of the high-end Manhattan building. From the corner of her eye, she saw Eduardo approaching; likely just about ready to physically remove her like the stalker she appeared to be.

She forced a smile on her face, waved him off apologetically, hoping that she was convincing in appearing merely lost. Ordering her feet to move, she pushed through the large glass doors, and hit 'answer' on the touch screen.

"Beckett!" She bellowed into the phone, entirely out of habit.

("Katie?")

Josh's voice tumbled into her ear, warm and familiar. Free of the bitterness and hurt that had laced the last conversation she had with him. The breakup had not been pretty, and she hadn't realized that she still carried a level of pain, of lingering guilt about it in her when it swept over her like a wave. She swayed, had to lean against the nearest wall.

"I hate it when you call me that." The words just drained out of her, a flat pattern of syllables; she felt exhausted.

("Since when?") He sounded confused, and a tad impatient.

Crap. Apparently, _Katie_ had not addressed any such issue before. Silence lingered for a moment, but she was spared a response when he went on talking.

("Are you still upset about the other day?")

She was getting really tired of having to fumble her way through conversations, her _life,_ to which she lacked the back-story. She sighed, dropped her head, rubbing her fingers along her forehead.

"Can we just not talk about this right now?"

("Okay. Fine.") He sounded anything but, yet he acquiesced. She detected more tension in the exchange with him than warranted. _This_ Josh and Kate had their own set of underlying issues. She wondered what they were.

("How about dinner?")

"Tonight?"

("No. Katie, I told you I'd be working the late shift into next week.")Now he really did sound exasperated. He sighed into the phone; she imagined him running his fingers along his scalp, disheveling the strands of his hair, like he tended to do when he was frustrated.

("How about Tuesday?") There was that touch of petulance in his voice again that she had never liked about him. Like a kid who didn't get his way sometimes.

She supposed she could do Tuesday. Maybe by Tuesday this whole weird whatever-this-was would be over, and she would _not_ have to do Tuesday.

"Okay. Tuesday." She was unable to put much enthusiasm in her voice, and she knew he heard it. She felt bad about it; _this _Josh, he didn't have the same history with her that had her at the limits of her patience.

("Listen Kate, I gotta go.") He suddenly sounded hurried; drawn into work mode likely by an arriving emergency that demanded his full attention, his thoughts already a mile away.

"Okay." She felt a rush of relief for being spared any more of this awkwardness.

("See you Tuesday?")

"Yeah. Tuesday." He hung up, and Kate let the phone drop into her purse, leaned her head back against the wall with a sigh.

* * *

><p>She wandered the city. The cool spring air ruffled her hair, snuck under the edges of her coat, and she cinched its belt tighter around herself to ward off the cold wind. She was adrift; let the city she knew by heart carry her along through the waves and bobs of her confusion. She wound her way through the park, along the narrower, less populated paths, lulled by the hum of rustling fresh leaves on the trees and the many-voiced chirps and songs of the birds. When she found herself by the playground, she finally sat down on a wooden bench along its edge, where the warming rays of the sun were not captured by the surrounding trees.<p>

She watched the children; their innocent bright laughter and joyful smiles, the occasional outbursts of temper, a cacophony of colorful coats and scarves and hats bobbing up and down and around the playground equipment, squealing and fighting and dancing and falling and picking themselves back up. She admired the innocence, the simplicity of life at that age when you weren't bogged down yet by the tragedies of life.

How was it possible that everything around her was still so… normal?

She felt raw, cracked open after the conversation with Josh, after the shock of Castle not recognizing her. How was it those same two men in her life, clashing all over again? Her mind raced back to last summer; phantom pain puckered between her breasts and she pressed her fingers to the spot where her bullet scar was. Oh right, used to be. No actual pain, just… memories.

She had felt so broken, when she had sent Castle away at the hospital. Felt only more broken with every day that passed, without him and just the bands of his words spoken so desperately to her wrapping around her heart, constricting her breathing until she would choke and gulp for air, the stronghold of panic driving tears to her eyes and she couldn't call him, could not take the sound of his voice, couldn't face it.

Josh had been there, staying by her side as much as he could; he wanted to take care of her, wanted to be there and she only felt suffocated by his attention. She was so angry, all the time. She was weak and felt helpless; she didn't want him to see her that way yet now, of all times, he was around, when he had never truly been available to her before. Only in her darkest hours would she sometimes face the reality that it wasn't Josh she wanted, but she couldn't deal with the fact that she had been trying so hard to make something work with who was essentially the fallback guy. Not while her every waking hour was spent in suffocating agony. His continued attention started to feel like a noose around her neck, drawing tighter and tighter every day.

Then one day, only half-conscious and in pain, she had called for Castle, had moaned his name, her fingers digging into the blanket in anguish, and of course Josh had been there to hear it. He had called her on it later, and suddenly they were fighting, hurling accusations at each other, freeing all the pent-up issues they had never said out loud. He had accused her of being in love with Castle, and she had shown him the door. Hadn't discussed it with him any further, just told him to get out and never come back again. He hadn't. He had tried calling a few times but she never took his calls.

And she ran, hid herself away in her dad's cabin.

Nine months. Nine months of healing and therapy and owning up to who she was, the choices she had made and why she made them, the people she had hurt; figuring out, fighting for what she wanted, and now here she was. She clenched her fists, trying to hold in a scream. She felt cheated! She was so close, just on the cusp, she could almost grasp it, that elusive and tempting happiness with Castle that was waiting for her on the other side… and here she got hurled into this bizarre universe, once more dating her past.

She sighed, dropped her face into her hands, acid rolling in her stomach. She just wanted to go home. Then she felt punched in the gut, heaved a heavy breath into her lungs. She grabbed for her purse, her wallet, and pulled out the little note she had surreptitiously folded and tucked into one of the credit card slots this morning when she got dressed. Her fingers shaking, she traced along the words, the loops and long lines of her mother's handwriting.

If she got to go home, her mom would be dead.

* * *

><p>She went back to the loft, pulled off her shoes and stumbled to the bedroom; she was exhausted, drained, could barely hold herself upright. She curled up on the sinfully comfortable bed in her clothes, pulled her knees up to her chest protectively. Shielding her face within the cradle of her arms, she closed her eyes, her mind numb like it was swaddled in blankets, and fell into the oblivion of deep, dreamless sleep.<p>

* * *

><p>She bought her mother a bouquet of flowers.<p>

She had woken up early on Sunday morning, after hours of dead sleep; she didn't even know how long she had slept, her mouth dried out as if it was stuffed with cotton balls, eyes gritty and caked with mascara. She was too warm and uncomfortable, the seams of her jeans digging into her skin. Disoriented, she tried to get her bearings, until everything flooded back to her mind. She wanted to pull the blankets back over her head, not face another day of _this,_ when her phone vibrated with a new text message. It was her mom, confirming the time for her to meet them for brunch, so instead she swung her feet off the bed, and went to get ready.

And now she bought her flowers. Because this once, she would not have to leave them at her grave.

* * *

><p>"What would you like today; pancakes, omelets or waffles?" Her mom greeted her with the once so familiar words, kissing her on the cheek.<p>

She still wasn't used to this – how could she ever be used to this again? – so she wrapped her arms around her mother's waist and gave her a long, tight hug.

"All of the above," she smiled when she finally pulled away from the cradle of her mom's embrace.

Johanna raised an eyebrow at her, seeming to ponder something, but as quickly as the look appeared, it vanished again.

"Sure, Katie," she guided her daughter toward the kitchen with a hand on her lower back. "But in that case, you'll need to help me cook."

* * *

><p>She was amazed, stunned, how simple it seemed to fall back into patterns, conversations, behaviors, that had not existed for more than a decade. At least for her. She had grown up and yet she suddenly felt nineteen again. Here she was, at home, grating potatoes, frying them in a pan and having her mother supervise so she wouldn't burn the hash browns.<p>

"Don't forget to add a bit of water before you cover them," her mom looked over her shoulder critically.

"I know, mom," Kate answered just a tad exasperated, but internally, she was rejoicing. Because what wouldn't she have given all these past years to hear her mother's I-told-you-so tone of voice, no matter how much it had bugged her as a teen.

She observed her mother out of the corner of her eye while they stood side by side at the kitchen counter, chopping vegetables for the omelets. She still looked younger than her 55 years of age. There were wrinkles rimming her eyes, laugh lines, but they were still fairly subtle. 'Never too early to start using eye cream,' she used to tell Kate, and so she did, religiously every day, even the same brand as her mother had preferred. Her skin was a bit more lax around her cheeks and the sides of her mouth. Fine strands of gray were now laced through her dark bob, just slightly changing its overall shade.

She could see it now, more objectively, why her dad always said that she looked so much like her mother. It wasn't just features, per se, but she recognized some of her mannerisms, her facial expressions too. Her heart leapt, realizing how much of her mother she had been carrying with her all her life, warmth flowing inside of her like a balmy lazy river.

Johanna bumped her hip against Kate's from the side, startling her out of her thoughts. "Chop chop, Sweetie," she chuckled, and Kate realized that the halved green pepper was still untouched on the cutting board in front of her. "If we're gonna eat at some point today…"

Kate looked at her mother's smiling face, mouth upturned and squinting eyes, at the simple joy and happiness, sheer _aliveness _captured in her features. A laugh rose up through her chest, tumbled out of her throat; she felt it like tiny bursting bubbles traveling along her skin, fizzing through her limbs, and she bumped against her mom's hip in answer. And then, still smiling, they turned back to their cutting boards, kept working side by side, mostly in comfortable silence, mother and daughter, so normal, everyday, so wonderfully mundane.

* * *

><p>So far Kate had been fairly successfully navigating her way through their conversation, mostly by diverting as many topics as possible back to her parents, and trying to avoid having to talk too much about herself. They were clustered around their dining room table that was laden with ridiculous amounts of food for only three people, and walking that tightrope was slowly exhausting her. Her father wasn't one to ask too many questions; her mother, on the other hand-<p>

"So Katie, what are your new classes like?" She asked while reaching for a waffle, and Kate's stomach clenched. "Did the spring semester grace you with a few more that show some good potential?"

Her mind raced, trying to find ways to circumvent any specifics without her mother getting suspicious, and eliminating them almost as quickly. She reached for the syrup, generously slathered her own waffle.

"Uhm, too early too tell," she fumbled, mentally crossed her fingers that it would work.

"What about you, mom?" she then forged ahead, hoping to distract her from asking for further details. "You have any really interesting cases right now?"

It was risky; her mother may have previously told her, well not her, but- never mind that, but if it worked, it would keep her talking for a good while.

"Oh yes, very interesting!" Johanna's voice lilted, her mind engaged already, and Kate took a relieved breath.

"Well, legally interesting. The case is really just such a sad story. This young woman, not even thirty yet, her whole life ahead of her and instead she's imprisoned for life, if I can't find a way to help her."

"What happened?" Kate asked, taking a strawberry off the fruit plate. She dipped its end in the syrup left on her plate before she bit in it, letting the sweet flavors, the hint of tartness, explode on her taste buds.

"Her mother was murdered. And so she hunted down her mother's killer, and shot him right in the chest."

The rest of the strawberry fell out of Kate's fingers; shocked, she stared at her mother who continued her narration, unaware of the impact of her story.

"Avenging her death, she said. Justice wasn't served, so she took matters into her own hands. And I'm listening to her story, and look at this beautiful child, and my heart is just breaking. Because yes, it's honorable to seek justice; I mean, it's what I live for too. But is that really what her mother would've wanted for her? To live like that?"

Kate's stomach churned, bile rising in her esophagus. Her fingers were shaking and she dropped them to her lap, entwined them in an almost painful grip. "What…" She had to clear her throat to get out the words. "What would you- _she_ have wanted, mom?"

Her mother's eyes cut to hers. "I think she'd want her to try be happy. She had a good job, was engaged, her whole life ahead of her. And now she'll spend the rest of it in prison instead, if I can't find a way to get her out, and the chances are very slim. Revenge wasn't going to bring her mother back, and instead it only ruined her life too."

Blood rushed out of her head; she felt dizzy, swayed on her chair. Johanna seemed to notice; she stopped her fervent monolog, tilted her head at Kate contemplatively. But then she reached over, tugged up one of Kate's hands into hers. A sheen of concern shone in her eyes as she looked at her.

"She's a mom, Sweetie. She'd want her to be happy, she'd want her to _live_. That's what mothers want most." She squeezed Kate's hands.

"Katie, I gave you life so that you could _live it_."

Kate's mind was reeling. She couldn't believe, couldn't grasp- Had she based her choices, her whole life- She couldn't sort her emotions, too many thoughts, feelings, she couldn't-

She gulped, fought tears that were relentlessly trying to well up. She felt nauseous, the food no longer feeling very pleasant in her stomach, bile rising…

"Excuse me," she pressed out the words, leapt off her chair, and then she raced up the stairs heading for her bathroom.

* * *

><p>She couldn't tell if it had been two minutes or twenty that she'd been sitting on the cold tiles next to the toilet, when the knock on the door came.<p>

She had tried to breathe through the nausea, but the tears had kept running, her head and sinuses getting stuffy and so she had lain half over the closed toilet lid, her head resting on her arm. Every muscle in her body felt limp and jittery. She felt too much; everything was closing in on her, an overwhelming sadness and most of all, a rising, dark level of anger and hurt. At her mother, who had so callously thrown back Kate's gift to her, had basically declared her life's choices faulty and wrong and unnecessary. And then she felt guilty about feeling angry because, how was that fair to her mom?

"Kate?" Her mother called through the wood. "Can I come in?"

"Yeah," she croaked, and the door opened.

Her mother closed the door behind her, then sat on the toilet seat, stroking her fingers through Kate's hair.

"How are you feeling Baby?"

She had no idea. She certainly couldn't say anything that remotely resembled the truth. "'m okay… Just got nauseous all of a sudden."

Johanna cradled Kate's chin between her thumb and forefinger, tilted her daughter's face up to look at her.

"Kate, are you pregnant?"

"What? Mom, no!" She vehemently shook her head.

"Because you're showing quite a few signs…" her mom continued as if she hadn't just denied that possibility, and Kate looked at her questioningly, her eyebrows furrowed.

"You were all out of sorts Friday night when you came here," her mother started listing her facts, lifting one finger at a time as if counting them out.

"You were craving all this food, were eating as if you'd been starved for days, and now you're nauseous and throwing up your breakfast."

"I didn't actually throw up…" Kate mumbled inanely, dropping her head back against her arm.

Her mom once again ran her fingertips along Kate's scalp. "And anyway, isn't that what you wanted? To have a baby?"

At that, Kate's head whipped back up, staring at her mother. Is that what she, _this Kate_, wanted? She gulped, for some inexplicable reason the tears welled up once more and she had no power to stop them.

"Sweetie…" Her mom cradled Kate's face within her hands, wiped away the tears underneath her eyes with her thumbs. "You know I'll be supportive of whatever you chose to do. But you need to be aware of what you're getting yourself into."

"You…" She sniffled, tried to clear the cobwebs in her brain. "You don't like Josh?"

Her mother sighed, and Kate wondered if they had had that conversation before. "You know that's not what it's about." She cradled Kate's cheek, caressed her skin with her soothing, motherly touch, so comforting that she just wanted to close her eyes and stay there.

"He's a good man. But he has his passion, his drive, and you… You just can't compete with that."

The familiarity of the words left her feeling kicked in the stomach. She leaned her cheek further into her mom's palm.

Johanna scooted off the toilet seat and squeezed next to Kate on the tile floor. Leaning back against the wall, she gathered her close, cradled her daughter's head into her neck.

Kate closed her eyes, falling once more into the comfort of her mom's touch, her scent, her familiarity. Oh she had missed her so.

"You deserve someone who will be there for you," she whispered, running her hand up and down Kate's back.

"Someone just as committed… Who will dive in with you. Someone who's loving, and protective, and whose greatest passion will be you."

And Kate allowed the words to lull her, to comfort her, with visions of Castle dancing on her mind. The man who had told her 'always.'

She wished she could tell her mother about him.

* * *

><p><em>TBC<em>

**AN: **Kudos and virtual purple M&Ms to anybody who catches the small movie quote I've used. One of my favorites!


	5. 5: limited plausibility

_**AN: **All my love to you wonderful people with your lovely and encouraging and excited thoughts on this story._

* * *

><p><strong>5: limited plausibility<strong>

She felt like an impostor when she walked into the university building on Monday morning. As if a bright spotlight was pointed at her head, highlighting the fake professor, who was sticking out like a sore thumb among the bustling student crowd. Her knees wobbled, and she felt nauseous, her stomach growling unhappily. She had gulped down way too much coffee to wake up, but had not been able to tolerate any breakfast.

She wasn't sure she could do this.

She had spent her Sunday afternoon trying to figure out how to do this job, had researched and studied and practiced. Kate ended up working well into the night, unable to sleep, before she had finally tumbled onto the bed in the early morning hours and caught a couple of hours of restless sleep.

First she had dug through _Kate_'s file cabinets, and with silent and grateful appreciation for Ms. Organized, she had discovered files for a variety of classes, including detailed notes and lecture outlines. She assumed that over the years, the professor would have had classes repeat every semester or year, allowing her to use previously prepared lectures. With the help of the Internet – she wasn't sure she had ever been more thankful for its existence – and the faculty website, she had cobbled together what her lesson plan for the week was, and she had also found the message boards through which Kate would communicate with her students.

Every time she had allowed her mind to wander, she would remember her mother's words, felt them stab her like needles, and she didn't want to think about the implications; she just couldn't think about it. Instead she had focused her mind, dove headfirst into studying. It had been hard; after years away from college and the Academy, her brain was no longer used to academic reading or retaining large quantities of information. She could do this, she kept telling herself while she wandered through the apartment concentrating on the details within the files, drilling the information needed for Monday's lectures into her head, she could do this.

Now, she really wasn't so sure if she could do this.

She had foregone the professional suits in favor of one of her more favorite outfits; had donned slim dark blue jeans, high-heeled boots, a blouse, with a scarf wrapped casually around her neck, and a brown leather jacket. It made her feel powerful. Made her feel more like herself.

Next, she needed to figure out where she had to go, when she had no idea of the layout of this building; she had found out the room number of where her lecture should take place, yet no idea where that room would be. And it wasn't not like she could ask anybody without appearing like a bumbling idiot. Her heart couldn't stop hammering.

"Kate!" A female voice called out from behind her, and Kate turned around. "Kate!"

A short whirlwind of a woman quickly headed toward her, with a full head of bouncing black curls that danced around her face as she speed-walked toward Kate, large eyes that sparkled dark-brown and rosebud lips in a cute, impish face. She had seen this woman before, during her extensive perusal of the faculty website. Marie… something.

"Good Morning Marie," Kate tried to smile past her trepidation when the woman reached her side, assuming she was friends with her based on her friendly reaction.

Marie Durand. That was it. French language lecturer.

"Good morning," the petite woman greeted her with a wide smile. "How was your weekend?"

Kate could detect a very light French accent in the woman's speech pattern.

"It was okay," she answered while they fell into step, walking down the corridor of the building. She had no idea how close she usually was to this Marie, so she thought it best to keep as low a profile as possible.

Marie hiked up an eyebrow teasingly. "Steamy weekend with that hot doctor of yours?"

Guess they were fairly close after all.

"Ehm, no," Kate hedged quietly, "he was on shift."

Marie kept looking at her alertly; her face turned from mischievous to serious, eyebrows knitted.

"Are you okay? You don't look good." Suddenly her eyes widened, her eyebrows rose questioningly.

"Wait-," Marie put a hand on Kate's shoulder. "Are you pregnant?"

Kate wanted to groan; caught herself just in time from rolling her eyes. Not again!

At least this time she had an answer.

On her way home from her parents' house yesterday, she had stopped to buy a pregnancy test. She had felt ridiculous doing so; she _knew_ she wasn't pregnant, right? But then again, what did she really know about _this life_ she had suddenly found herself in? Maybe she was pregnant in this twilight zone edition. Oh god please, she didn't know how to handle that on top of everything else.

So she had peed on that stick, had paced restlessly for the required five minutes until the plastic had magically revealed its answer.

"No," she replied confidently.

She had been so relieved; she had vaguely thought about having children before, someday, maybe, but- Goodness, not with Josh.

"Hmm," Marie's voice brought her back to the present. "Maybe next month."

Kate clenched her fingers. Please, just let this conversation be over.

"Kate!"

"What?" Kate startled, turned toward Marie and found that the other woman had stopped a few feet behind her, with a questioning look on her face.

"You just walked right past your class." Marie pointed toward a door next to her with her thumb, observing her closely.

Kate glanced over and indeed, there was room 204. "Oh yes," she walked back to Marie, smiled apologetically as if she had just been lost in thought. At least this way she hadn't had to ask for directions.

* * *

><p>She could do this. Kate took a deep, steadying breath. She could do this. She could do this.<p>

And she opened the door to her '_Introduction to 19__th__ Century Literature'_ class, and stepped inside.

The classroom was similar to the ones she remembered from Stanford; ascending rows of tables and seats were filled with about seventy students that perked up to respectful attention when they noticed her.

She wished them a good morning, was relieved to find that it was not an overwhelmingly large class, and let her gaze wander over_ her_ students while she stepped toward the smart board.

And then she stopped, clenched her fingers against the table in front of her to stop from swaying. A sense of relief swamped over her, and fought with the anxiety rolling in her stomach.

Because there it was. A red-haired beacon. Appearing as if her true life was throwing her a life vest.

Alexis.

In her class.

That meant Alexis knew her. At least in some capacity. Which meant she might be able to get access to Castle, might be able to talk to him. He would be able to help her. He was the one with the wild theories, the ridiculous ideas that sometimes just turned out to be true. She really just needed to talk to him, to figure all this out.

Her thoughts were falling all over each other, hopeful and excited, planning, hoping.

The general level of unrest was growing and finally she noticed it, the shuffling of shoes and low murmurs of conversation between the students; realized that she must be staring into space in the middle of her class like an idiot. Right, she had to focus; she had to get through this first. She could do this.

She started her, or rather _the other Kate's_ PowerPoint presentation for today's topic on the smart board, and began speaking.

* * *

><p>By the end of the hour, she was completely exhausted; she had no clue how she would manage another one this afternoon.<p>

Her lecturing had been quite wobbly at first, the nerves fluttering in her tummy made her voice shaky, and she stumbled over facts, lost her train of thought, stuck in awkward pauses because she had to go back to her notes.

Eventually though, she found her stride. It was a bit like standing in front of her murder board, filling in her fellow detectives, she realized; all she had to do was recite facts. At least for now. She was grateful for her good memory that helped her recall the historical and literary details she had crammed yesterday, and for the hours she had spent practicing this lecture over and over again.

Nevertheless, having to concentrate so hard was taking its toll, and coupled with the lack of sleep and food, she felt like her knees would buckle at any moment. She barely made it to the end of the topic within the allotted time frame, and when a few hands rose at the end, she asked the students to please submit all questions to her email as they were out of time for the class.

Then the students were grabbing their books and laptops and bags and were filing out of the classroom. She caught a few concerned or confused glances thrown her way, but ultimately, she thought this could have been way worse.

"Ms. Castle," she called out when she saw Alexis passing by, and the girl turned. "Could I have a word?"

Alexis face turned apprehensive and she walked over quickly.

"Yes Professor Beckett? Was anything wrong with my assignment?" She questioned anxiously.

Kate smiled at the familiar eagerness of the girl. "Relax, nothing like that," she calmed the nervous first year student, "your assignment was great." Actually she had no idea, but knowing Alexis, it seemed like a fairly safe assumption.

The girl visibly relaxed, a pleased smile on her lips. "Thank you."

"No actually, I was wondering," she floundered a bit, trying to figure out how to ask this. She was probably breaking more than one university rule. She just had to come right out and say it.

"I would like to speak with your father about something."

"My dad?" Alexis' eyes immediately turned guarded, suspicious of her intentions. Kate wasn't surprised; who knows how many times the girl was asked that, how often she had to divert the attention of crazed Richard Castle fans.

"Yes. I would like to ask his expertise on fiction writing and publishing." She hoped that was a decent enough explanation; it was the best she could come up with that would not make her sound too much like a stalking fan.

"I quite admire his work," she admitted with a smile, to hopefully warm Alexis to her cause with a little bit of truth.

Alexis regarded her intensely for a few moments, her head slightly tilted and her eyebrows knit. She knew that the girl was thinking so Kate tried to remain calm, tried not to show how much it mattered to her that she could meet Richard Castle. She was glad she knew Alexis, or at least thought she knew her, because the girl's quiet scrutinizing stare was really unnerving.

Then Alexis seemed to make a decision. Her face still serious, she nevertheless nodded, and reached for her notepad and a pen.

"Come by tonight then," she instructed while she scribbled down the address so familiar to Kate, then ripped the paper out of her notebook and handed it over. "I'll let him know."

Then she turned on her heels, and walked out.

* * *

><p>She was a nervous wreck when she exited the elevator and walked toward the door to his loft. She felt ridiculous; she knew this man, right? But she didn't actually know this man at all.<p>

The thought tasted like heartbreak, bitter against her tongue.

She had dragged through her afternoon as best as she could. Her second class was _Women Writers in France_, and she had actually enjoyed the topic a bit more; it vaguely reminded her of her women's history class as a freshman though she had not previously been very familiar with Marguerite Dumas who had been today's scheduled topic, and so she had muddled her way through the hour, not quite as bumbling as in the morning, but not very well either.

Somewhat rough-and-ready, she could probably make it through most of the classes over the next couple of days, but she had no idea how she was supposed to handle Thursday's advanced lectures that would have to be taught in French. She shook off the thought; not ready to think about that yet.

The rest of her day had consisted of a number of awkward conversations with coworkers she didn't know, hiding herself away so she would run into as few people as possible, especially Marie who kept eyeing her with both concern and curiosity, and sitting in a secluded corner of the faculty's library to study her files for next day's lectures. And after the building was slowly clearing out, she had wandered the hallways, locating room numbers and lecture halls and trying to find her way around.

Her fatigue made her knees feel rubbery, her head swim. She couldn't wait to get to bed tonight, fall into an exhausted and hopefully dreamless sleep, but instead she was here. Because she could not be anywhere but here.

She just- She _had_ to see him.

She summoned her courage from the far corners it had retreated to, took a deep breath, and knocked on his door.

It swung open fast; much like the very first time she had visited him, except this time he was not wearing his laser tag gear, only a surprised smile.

She stared at him, just for a moment. His carefree smile, laugh lines around his deep blue, sparkling eyes, and she had to lock up her knees, clench her fists to stop herself from leaping forward and wrapping her arms around his neck. She wanted to be buried against his neck, in his scent, draw comfort in his familiarity. But there was no familiarity, only pleased curiosity shining back at her.

"You must be the professor that my daughter told me to expect?"

She realized she was still staring, had to gulp down the cloying sadness in her throat before she could speak.

"Kate Beckett," she woodenly stuck out her hand.

"Rick Castle." He folded his hand around hers, squeezed her fingers in greeting, and his warmth seeped into her skin, traveled through her, made her feel fuzzy and her cheeks glow. It was almost overwhelming, how much she missed him, how it broke her heart that he didn't know her.

"Well come on in," he gestured widely for her to walk through the doorway, his grin full of that boisterous, boyish charm, at once so familiar and achingly distant.

As she passed, he gave her the once-over. "You sure look more stunning than any professor I've ever had," he winked at her.

"Uh," she turned toward him, kneaded her fingers. What was she supposed to answer to this when there was no history of shared banter between them?

"Thank you for seeing me," she supplied instead.

His expression melted into a more genuine smile. "Alexis speaks very highly of you. That was enough recommendation for me to know you're not a stalker. Or a paparazzi. Or a zombie!" He looked excited at the prospect of the last one. It made her smile, just a little; cleared some of the awkward spider webs that were wrapped around her.

"Would you like some wine?" He raised an eyebrow in invitation.

"Sure," she nodded, and slipped off her coat. He took it from her, hung it in his coat closet, and headed for the kitchen.

"Red okay?"

"Yes." She looked around curiously; once more felt like she was part of a bad episode of The Twilight Zone. His loft looked pretty much exactly as she knew it. The same furnishings, wall colors, many of the decorations. A few touches here and there were different, but overall, the similarities were eerie.

"Feeling like Alfred in the Bat cave for the first time?" He suddenly spoke close to her while extending a wine glass. His voice was humorous, merely a comment on her staring, but it rippled through her like a shock wave, the vicious familiarity of his words and she turned, stared at him.

"I'm sorry," he took a step back, clearly thinking that she didn't appreciate his humor. Oh Castle, if only you knew.

"Ca- _Mr_. Castle," she corrected quickly, but he interrupted.

"Please, call me Rick." His smile was friendly, but a little more reserved.

She so rarely called him Rick, he had become _Castle_ so quickly, first only due to precinct habit, but then it just… suited him. He had become her Castle.

She didn't want him to be reserved with her.

"Kate," she offered with a small smile.

His eyes lit up at that, a sparkle of warmth that showered her in more fireworks than the situation warranted.

"So, Kate," he gestured for her to walk, guiding her toward his living room, "what can I do for you?"

She sat down on the side of the sectional, while he took a seat perpendicular to her, watching her with interest while he took a sip of his wine. It was a familiar stare, one she remembered from long ago, before he got to know her better, before he knew her so intuitively; a writer's curiosity, intent on getting the whole story, looking closely for clues, gestures and facial expression that would fill in all that the words left blank.

She was glad she didn't encounter the Castle tonight who she had first met three years ago, the one who would put on a façade, act like a smirking playboy without a care in the world. She wondered, did the protective walls of his own home give him the freedom to be himself more than during their first meeting at his book party? Had Alexis urged him not to hit on her professor? Or had he changed over the years just the same, due to whatever the circumstances were in his life – whether she was in it or not?

The thought pierced a place deep inside of her. He was a quieter presence than the man she had first met, but he also was not the same man she had to leave behind in what was her real life.

"I'm writing a novel," she took the plunge and forged ahead with the cover story she had formulated on her way over here. He didn't know her, in _this _life; she figured that she couldn't just dump the ridiculous truth on him and expect him to believe her.

"But I am questioning its plausibility, its believability to the reader."

He nodded, eyeing her curiously. "Give me the broad strokes."

She took a sip of wine, wetting her tongue. "From one moment to the next, my character finds herself in a life completely different from her own. The key players are essentially the same, yet things, all the experiences and events that have formed her, have not happened in this life. And she has to navigate this _new_ life while she only has the memories and knowledge of her _other_ life." She broke off at that, bit her bottom lip while she looked at him self-consciously.

Castle was regarding her intensely. She could see that he was pondering her words, her story, her. But his eyes didn't give anything away. "So what is your question exactly?" He finally asked.

"How did she get there? What happened, and why?" Kate needed an answer so desperately, had been aching to talk with him, to run theories with him, and the words tumbled out of her mouth fast and emotional. She was so confused, and drained; everything piled on her like lead, pulling her under, drowning out who she was and she was desperately clinging to the edge of the well, holding herself up.

"How," she gulped down the tears that tried to choke her, tried to keep her voice level, "how do I make what happens to her believable?"

"How _does_ it happen? To her?"

"She doesn't know. She just wakes up, and everything is different." She looked at him, held his eyes with hers, and she knew she was giving away too much. Her eyes too watery, her voice too intense, too strangled, but she couldn't help it, this was her _life_ and she needed help; she needed him to help her.

His eyes narrowed, brows knitted as he regarded her, and she saw it in his eyes that he had questions, doubts. Kate knew him well enough to discern that he realized there was a lot more she_ wasn't_ saying.

But he didn't call her out on it; instead he leaned forward, his elbows on his thighs, fingers steepled in front of his chin.

"Well, there are your obvious options," he started recounting matter-of-factly.

"Your character could be dreaming everything."

Kate mentally shook her head; no way was she still dreaming, this was too real, too realistic, too wretchedly intense.

"She could have suffered from a head trauma that caused memory loss," he continued, "and now her brain is conjuring up the story of either the past life, or the current life, as a coping mechanism. She could be comatose, living an alternate path her life could've taken or dealing with regrets all while her brain is healing…"

"Then there are your more sci-fi options…" He looked over to her questioningly and Kate merely nodded, indicating her continued interest.

"There are, for example, theories that linear realities exist simultaneously, suggesting that we all live infinite lives at the same time in parallel existences, only whatever different choices we make changes the paths and outcomes of each existence. Your character could, say through a glitch in quantum physics, have been accidentally thrown into a different one of those existences."

"Or it could be a time loop, a glitch of time travel; somebody may have traveled through time, changed something in the past that impacted your character's life, maybe righted what once went wrong, and for some reason that could be determined as the story unfolds, she remembers everything from before it got changed."

"See, there are infinitely more possibilities that we could all explore and dissect for your novel, if you would like, but…" and now he leveled her with a stare, "that's not why you're here."

"What?" She wasn't surprised that he had caught her out on her flimsy cover story, but still she croaked out the word; too much was wrapped up in his believing her, in his not showing her the door.

"Come on, Kate. You are a French literature professor. I'd expect any novel you would write to be more poetic than this, not to mention that your behavior suggests more emotional investment than would be healthy, which tells me two things. Either you really are a crazed stalker fan, in which case you are doing an atrocious job of tackling me so far, or you are not telling me the whole story." He shifted on the couch, turned his full attention to her, expectant but, she noted with a modicum of relief, not exactly distrusting yet.

"So, why are you really here?"

She nipped her fingernail with her teeth, glanced at him worriedly. "You'll think I'm crazy if I tell you."

"Try me."

And maybe he wouldn't think she was crazy. This was _Castle_. Man of infinite belief in CIA conspiracies, aliens and spies and the possibilities of magic.

"It's me," she blurted, "the story of this character. It is happening to me! Right now, in this moment, this is all happening." She could no longer keep the desperate ache out of her voice; like opening the flood gates, the words rushed forth, an unstoppable, powerful rush.

"And I came to you because we know each other in my _real_ life, in that life I remember. We are-," she got caught for a moment, stuck on all that they had been to each other, and all they could've been. So close to being so much more.

"…Friends, and we help each other, and you are the only person that I trust enough to tell this to. You are the one I would come to for the crazy theories."

"Kate…"

The sound of a key scratching in the lock of the front door made her jump, leap up from the couch in shock. The door opened, and a blonde woman stepped inside.

"Gina," Kate whispered.

Castle's head whipped toward Kate, stared at her in shock. But then he quickly caught himself, and walked toward the woman who had just come in. Who had come _home_, from the looks of it.

"Hey," he greeted her warmly, and kissed her on the cheek. Then he ushered her forward toward the living room, his hand against her lower back.

"Gina, this is Kate Beckett, Alexis' French Professor," he introduced her, and Gina looked at her with a friendly smile while she wrapped her arm around Castle's waist, clearly staking her claim.

"Kate, this is my wife, Gina."

* * *

><p>She went home after that, disappointed and dejected, weighed down by the reality that he was married, and that he might not even have believed her. It hurt deep, an ache to her bones, a heaviness to her flesh as she dragged up the stairs to her apartment.<p>

And she wasn't a single step closer to the truth than before.

But the next morning, when she had just stepped out of the shower, her phone signaled a new message. She had no idea how he had gotten a hold of her cell phone number, but he did.

_I still want the whole story. Want to meet for coffee? RC_

_TBC_

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN: <strong>Please don't hate me. (I know where I'm going with this, I promise. Trust me. :)) _

Tumblr: nic6879(dot)tumblr(dot)com  
><span>Twitter:<span> (at)nic6879


	6. 6: tightrope walk

**AN: **_I guess nagging works… eventually. :) Thank you all for the multitudinous outpourings of excitement, love and impatience for this story. I am in equal parts intimidated and humbled, and I hope that it is worth the wait. _

* * *

><p><strong>6: tightrope walk<strong>

Her heart hammered in her chest; she held the phone clutched between her fingers as she stared at his message. She had felt so desolate last night, her last hope having seemingly fluttered out the window with the arrival of Gina, but here he was, extending a thin rope of optimism to her and she was clinging to it with a vice grip.

She had barely slept again; had thrown herself into her work, spent most of the night cramming information for today's classes, to stop feeling, to just _not_ have to think. About him, about anything. The hollows under her eyes were getting darker, and her legs felt weak, her stomach sick, rolling with exhaustion.

She startled, almost lost the grip on her phone when it vibrated in her palm. A second text message popped up onto the screen.

_JOSH  
><em>_We still on for tonight? I could pick you up at 7._

She groaned, closed her eyes and rubbed her fingers along her forehead.

Shit.

It was Tuesday. And she had a date with Josh.

* * *

><p>She bought a burrito from a street vendor and went to the park on her lunch break. Sinking onto a wooden bench, she turned her face into the sun, letting the fresh air surge into her lungs. The air was warm but still tinged with a slight spring chill, and she let the refreshing breeze tingle through her bloodstream.<p>

Kate felt like she was running the gauntlet all day long, and by now she was feeling her exhaustion bone-deep. She had to avoid her colleagues, constantly had to find ways to keep every conversation casual and impersonal, let alone having to stumble through a job she didn't know anything about.

The morning class had gone mostly okay, though more than once she had felt the concerned glances of her students when she stumbled on her words, fudged on a question. She had no idea what they saw, how their professor usually behaved and how she was different.

She sighed. If she were truly stuck in this life, she would have to make a decision soon about what to do. She couldn't go on like this, could not keep doing this. She was not able to do those kids, _her_ students, justice.

Digging through her bag, she grabbed for her phone. She couldn't handle that, not now; had to do first things first.

Looking at her schedule this morning, she had reluctantly asked Castle whether he could meet her for coffee on Wednesday instead, and they had set up a time.

Next, Kate had texted Josh a flimsy excuse that allowed her to stall on a specific answer, and she'd been thinking about what to do ever since. It certainly had not helped her concentration level during class, having that decision loom over her head like a menacing storm cloud.

She restlessly ran her fingers through her hair. She didn't want to go. Did not want to see him again. Their phone conversation the other day had scrambled up her emotions more than enough, and not having spoken to him since would only have made it worse. How was she supposed to interact with him, be with him?

She really did not want to go, but the more she thought about it the clearer it became that she had to. She would have to see him again at some point, and dragging it out would only make it worse.

She had to get it over with.

She sighed, then started tapping out a message on her screen.

_7 is fine. Let's meet at the restaurant instead. _

* * *

><p>The yellow lines flashed in her peripheral vision; she whipped around and automatically headed in that direction, her legs carrying her to the accustomed scene purely on instinct. A familiar stature strutted behind the crime scene tape and her stomach fluttered.<p>

"Esposito!" She yelled the name, and only then did it hit her- He didn't know her! Shit.

The man turned; his eyebrows knitted together, he searched the crowd for where the voice had come from. Kate stood stock-still for a moment, didn't know what to do, her heart beating loudly in her throat. Then she leapt sideways, jumped behind the trunk of a tree on the sidewalk.

She sucked in air and held her breath, leaning sideways on the tree with her shoulder and thigh pressed so tightly against the bark that she would still see the dents imprinted into her skin later.

Carefully she poked her face around the tree, observing the scene. Esposito did one final sweep across the crowd, then shook his head irritatedly and turned his attention back to the crime scene. She scanned the officers around him; she didn't see Ryan but she recognized Kapowski and Fitzpatrick. A couple more officers milled around with whom she wasn't familiar.

She had to force her feet to stay put, and not walk over to them. It welled through her, an urge so strong that it took her breath away, needing to walk onto the scene, ask the questions. It was overwhelming how much she wanted to dive into the case, put her mind to the facts and try to untangle the mystery. She wanted, she ached to help.

She closed her eyes, turned her shoulder blades against the tree trunk, needing its steady support to keep her upright. It had been clear to her for a long time that she was good at her job, that she was an excellent detective. She was detail-oriented, enjoyed the chase and solving the mysteries, while not lacking the compassion for the victims and their families. But all her life choices as an adult had been so inextricably intertwined with her mother's murder that she never thought much about why she kept doing it, other than to bring justice to others that she was not given herself.

Being a professor was… interesting. It was certainly a noble profession, dedicating one's life to the young in society, advancing their knowledge and being a part of forming them into responsible and valuable adults. If she knew more about her subject, she could imagine even enjoying it, working with those young people, and immersing herself in the world of academia.

But in comparison, it fell- flat. Her mind cleared with a rush of realization that left her feeling weak in the knees. It had never been as evident to her how much she enjoyed it. Or maybe she had never allowed herself to see it as clearly. It had become more than to honor her mother. She loved being a detective.

She loved the mysteries, untangling the web of clues and connections. She loved the chase, the rush of excitement when they were closing in on a perpetrator. She loved bringing justice to those left behind, being able to give them a sense of respect and significance when their world had so irrevocably fallen apart.

She loved it. She missed it.

Her insides still fluttering, shaking, she peeked past the tree to the crime scene, looking to see her people again. Someone rose next to Esposito, causing a smile on the detective's face, and she immediately recognized that it was Lanie.

"Lanie," she mumbled under her breath, inaudibly calling for her friend. Her eyes welled up again, unstoppably fast; the feeling of loneliness overwhelming and disparaging. She ached to talk to her; she missed her sass, her pragmatism and her incomparable zest for life.

She stood there for a long time, hidden from view with her shoulders against that tree. Trying to just breathe. Until she had gathered enough strength to move, walk back to the afternoon classes at the university. And away from the people she knew.

She missed them. So much, it hurt.

* * *

><p>"Follow me, please" the seating hostess invited her with a pleasant smile. Kate trailed behind her, winding her way along the small tables of the cozily lit space. This was a nice place, she thought for a moment; she would probably enjoy having dinner there if she didn't feel as if she was being sent to the principal's office.<p>

She was secretly relieved that Josh had arrived before her and already had to claim their table. It gave her a precious couple more minutes to collect herself, calm down the flutters in her stomach. She was nervous, not because it was a date but because this was all just so surreal. She had no idea how intense _Kate's_ relationship with Josh was, but given the fact that the woman had apparently considered having a baby with this man, it seemed likely that they had been together for a while. How was she supposed to handle that?

Then the hostess slid to the side, gestured for Kate to step up, and there he was, rising from his chair to greet her.

She felt punched in the gut, virtually felt her face draining of all color. He looked just like she remembered, his black hair flopping over his forehead, longer in the back and falling in large curls onto his shoulders. Tall and broad and handsome, with that warm, soft smile that had drawn her to him in the first place, back when they had met at a pub and he had asked to buy her a drink. So different from the last time she saw him, when his face was drawn, his eyes sparking with both hurt and anger, and dimmed by the hopelessness that had come with the realization that he had never stood a chance.

She felt nauseous, her legs shaky but she forced her feet to move, to step closer.

"Katie," he smiled, placed his palms on her shoulders as he moved in to kiss her. She turned her head to the side and he ended up kissing her on her cheek instead.

Josh drew away. "Kate." He mustered her, a trace of hurt in his voice but then his eyes turned concerned.

"Kate, are you alright? You don't look well."

She lifted her eyes to him. Even in the dull lighting he must have noticed the darkness under her eyes, her hollow cheeks and the paleness to her face.

"I'm okay," she answered quietly, and stepped away to sit down. He guided her by her arm until she was seated securely, then moved around the table to sit back in his own seat across from her.

The awkwardness hung between them, heavy and stifling; she fiddled with her napkin, straightened it on her lap, and then she finally raised her eyes to him.

He was leaning forward, his forearms resting on the table with his fingers twined together, looking at her closely.

"It this," he started, his voice scratchy, then he cleared his throat, "I mean, are you…?" He vaguely gestured in her direction, looked her up and down, blinked nervously.

And then she got it.

"Pregnant?"

He flinched.

"No." She said it matter-of-factly, leaned back against the chair, trying to gauge his reactions. Was that the issue in their relationship, the reason that the other Kate was supposedly upset with Josh, like he had alluded to on the phone?

"I'm sorry." He reached for her, laid his hand on top of hers on the table.

"Are you?" She questioned, her voice even. She wasn't trying to start a fight with him, in fact she felt surprisingly even at this moment, but she had to try to figure out some of the back story here, and all she could read from his gestures, his facial expression, was a subdued sense of relief.

Josh hung his head. "Listen, about that…" He squeezed her hand, took a deep breath, then finally seemed to have garnered enough courage to lift his had back up and look her in the eyes.

"I don't think I'm ready for this, Katie," he admitted, his face contrite. "I'm sorry. I thought…" At this he leaned back in his chair, rubbed a hand over his face, but then looked at her again, his eyes wide, serious. He seemed to have resigned himself to say whatever he needed, whatever he seemed to have worked out over the past days. Or who knows how long.

"You are really amazing, Kate, and I thought I was but with my work, and the missions…" He sighed. "The truth is, I'm not sure I ever will be."

She took him in for a few moments, watched him closely, observant, but he didn't flinch. He must have been thinking about that, worrying and formulating, for a long time.

She had to admit she didn't see that one coming. Her thoughts were racing, spiraling, trying to figure out what to do with this particular revelation, how to handle it. But all of a sudden, everything aligned, her thoughts in a neat row, clicking into place.

"I think we should break up," she stated.

"What? Kate…" He seemed genuinely shocked, and she wondered why. Had he not even considered that possibility? Considered the fact that when he had decided for himself to not have children, maybe ever, he would be taking her choices too? A familiar anger washed over her, and it felt a lot like previous fights they have had, arguing about work and not committing enough time to the other.

She suppressed it; that wasn't the point just now.

"Listen Josh, I can't be the person keeping you from what you are passionate about, binding you to a family if that's not what you truly want. You would come to resent me for it." She leaned forward, hooked her index finger around his.

"And I would end up resenting you if you were keeping me from what I want." The loaded truth of that statement was staggering; it momentarily took her breath away.

He hung his head as if ashamed but she tugged on his finger, made him look back up.

"You're a good man. You do this wonderful, noble, incredible thing and I admire that, I truly do. But I can't compete with that. I _shouldn't_ compete with that." He blinked but held her gaze, nodded almost imperceptibly in agreement.

"You have a passion in life, Josh, but it's not me. You need to find someone who shares that same drive." She rose from her chair, swung her purse over her shoulder, then faced him.

Getting up as well, he reached for her, wrapped his fingers around her wrist.

"And what about you Kate?" He asked, tentative but sincere. 'Will you be okay?' silently laced his words.

She smiled softly.

"I need to find out who I truly am," she admitted. Leaning forward, she placed a tender kiss on his cheek, wordlessly saying goodbye.

And then she turned, and walked away.

* * *

><p>"Tell me how we met," Castle requested once they were seated side by side on a park bench. "In this other life of yours."<p>

Kate leaned back against the wooden seatback of the bench, and a soft smile stole onto her face as she gathered the memories.

It was an unusually warm spring this year, and the afternoon sparkled with an impossibly blue sky and bright sunlight that danced along the skin of her face, warmed her cheeks and the dark denim of her jeans against her thighs. She inhaled deeply, wondered for a moment whether she ever took enough time to appreciate that simple beauty.

She had the afternoon off on Wednesdays, so she had set up to meet Castle after lunch. Her only class that morning had been another _Intro to 19__th__ Century Literature_, but for a different group of students, so she had been able to hold the same lecture as she did the previous Monday. She had gotten more sleep, and her body was finally a bit less achy and exhausted. She felt lighter than she had it quite a while, as if some of the weights that she'd been dragging around with her had been lifted. She was steadfastly ignoring that she had no idea how to handle tomorrow's advanced classes.

They had met at the corner of 5th Avenue and 59th Street near the Plaza Hotel at two o'clock, and when she had arrived he was already waiting for her, two take-out coffee cups pressed into a cardboard tray in his hand. The sight was so familiar that her heart somersaulted in her chest, the blood rushing loudly in her ears. But then she had come closer and his smile was less wide, slightly unsure, and she had remembered that this wasn't _her _Castle. She had to swallow down the knot in her throat.

They had walked into Central Park, quietly strolled along the paths for a few minutes, past a couple of fountains and a playground until they had found a secluded park bench in front of a cluster of trees.

She took a sip of her coffee. "Vanilla?" She turned her head toward him, observed his face from the side. She supposed she should've been more surprised that he had guessed her coffee correctly once again, but she wasn't, not with him.

He turned toward her, seemed to accept her changing the topic, at least for the moment. "You like it?"

She nodded.

He smiled, seemed pleased with himself, or with her. "Took a wild guess." Then he lifted an eyebrow teasingly. "You're also a rather skinny little thing so I ordered it fat-free. Oh but then I secretly added some sugar to get a few calories into you."

She grinned against the lid of the cup, sipped again. Close enough. "It's not so secret if you're telling me about it now."

"Oh," he held up the paper bag he had gripped between his fingers, as if he'd forgotten about it until now. "I didn't know what you liked so I also brought you a donut with sprinkles, a piece of lemon loaf, and a bear claw." He grinned.

She smiled warmly. "Thank you, that's really sweet." Taking the bag from his fingers, she pulled out the bear claw, ripped a piece off the pastry with her fingertips and stuffed it in her mouth, licking the sticky sugar off her fingers.

"Cute pun. I like it," he teased her, and she chuckled.

This was all just so surreal. They didn't know each other at all, not in _this life_, and yet there was a sense of familiarity between them that was undeniable. It glided along her veins, like sweet viscous molasses, warm and comforting inside of her and she wanted to lean over, rest her cheek on his shoulder, soak in his scent, the comfort of his presence. She felt herself swaying toward him and then she remembered her situation, remembered the reality that he didn't know her, that he wasn't the same man who told her 'always.' That he was married. The smile froze on her face; she squeezed her eyes closed, sucked in a deep breath.

"Tell me your story, Kate." He spoke with interest and quiet respect, and it shook her, helped dispel the icy tendrils of dread that had wrapped around her heart. She blinked open her eyes, was shocked for a moment by the piercing sunlight and the dreamlike beauty of this day.

"Well," she shifted, tucked a leg under herself on the bench and faced him. He was watching her with curious attention. "In my 'other life,' I'm a homicide detective with the NYPD."

His eyes widened, sparkled with boyish excitement. "Really? That is so hot."

She grinned. "Yeah that's pretty much what you thought the first time we met too."

"Yeah, that does sound like me."

Kate chuckled. "You were pretty insufferable," she said affectionately.

"Seems you got past that," he said more seriously, watching her closely.

She nodded. "I did." She stared at him, and a reel of memories unraveled behind her eyes, so many moments with this man, full of fun and crazy theories, danger and surviving, unwavering support and missed opportunities. Her breath caught in her throat and she swallowed hard, breaking the moment.

"A few years ago someone had staged murder scenes based on your books," she recited the beginning of their story. "I was the lead detective on the case, so I sought you out as a witness."

"Oh my god, this happened to me too," he exclaimed, his face shining with exhilaration. "I mean, in this life! 'Flowers for your Grave,' 'Death of a Prom Queen,' and 'Hell Hath no Fury,' right?"

"Yeah! Yes," she confirmed, stunned.

He leaned back on the bench. "Wow, this is_ surreal_."

Yeah, no kidding, she thought.

"Except of course, without you," he elaborated, and she couldn't help the small glimmer of warmth that danced through her stomach when he sounded disappointed at that.

"Who was there, what happened with the case?"

"It was two guys from the 12th, Detectives Ryan and Esposito?" He phrased it as a question, as if he was waiting for confirmation from her.

She smiled brightly. "They are my team, in _my _life, I mean. Good guys."

He nodded. "Yeah after they had hauled me in and had given me the 3rd degree for a while, they finally believed me. You know, I ended up shadowing them for my next book series."

She stared at him in shock. "You shadow Espo and Ryan?" She questioned incredulously.

A shadow ran across his face, a darkness dimming the brightness of his eyes. She had seen him look like this before. "What is it Cas... Rick?"

He startled, stared at her with knitted eyebrows. As if he had forgotten for a moment that she was there, lost in memories. But then he smoothed his features, and she could visibly watch him push the moment away. He was hiding something.

"Nothing, I'll- I'll tell you later."

She nodded, accepting his choice, for now.

"Not any longer," he brought them back to topic. "Only for a few months. That's usually all the research I need."

She smiled mischievously. "Hmm I don't know Castle, in my life you are still shadowing _me_ and it's been four years."

He grinned at her, his smile wide and undeniably sexy. "I must have a good reason for that."

The best reasons, Castle, she thought, and warmth rushed through her veins. "Yeah." She smiled tenderly.

"So." He cleared his throat. "In this life of yours, I write about you?"

"Yes. You named my character Nikki Heat."

He chuckled. "I can see why." He scratched his chin, exaggeratedly wiggled his eyebrows at her. "Come to think of it, I would probably make that same choice again."

Kate socked him in the bicep. "Shut up." She savored some more of her coffee, thought for a few seconds.

"Actually, I really like Nikki," she admitted, watching a mother and her cute toddler stroll by, the little girl's blonde pigtails bouncing as she wobbled along the path.

"It is very… reverent, the way you write about her, about me_._" She glanced over at him and he was watching her with rapt attention, pleased by her words. Kate smiled. Had she ever told him that before?

"And you like it? Being a homicide detective?" He asked curiously, and there was no surprise in his voice, only a sense of awe and respect.

"Yeah, I do. And I'm really good at it, too. But it's only recently become clearer to me why I do it. How much I love it," she admitted.

"You miss it?"

"Yes. And I miss my colleagues, my friends." You, she thought. I miss you.

"Would you want to go back? I mean, if you could."

"Yes. No. Maybe? I don't know." She dropped her head, tried to think, to gather her scattered thoughts but nothing, none of it would make much sense if she didn't tell him. He needed to know.

"My mother was killed when I was nineteen," she forced the words out of her throat. His mouth opened in shock; she could see that he wanted to speak, wanted to say something but she waved him off; she had to get this out first. "I hadn't seen her in thirteen years, but I'm vaulted into this _existence_ here and she's alive Castle, my mother is _alive_!"

"And if you went back, she'd be dead." He filled in the blank, his voice low, shocked.

"Yeah," she sighed, fought against the dark knot that had formed in her throat, trying to choke her.

"Then why not stay? What did you have in this other life that you would want to go back for?"

She took a deep, fortifying breath, but then she lifted his eyes up at him, and spoke the truth.

"You, Castle. I had you."

* * *

><p><em>TBC<em>


	7. 7: distinctive dichotomy

**AN:** So, unintended though it was, this story went on summer hiatus right along with the show. (_24 hours until 'After The Storm', can you believe it?!_) It has been a crazy summer for me, very fantastic but really busy and this story fell victim to my disorganization. My sincere apologies for the ridiculously long wait.

All my love for you wonderful, amazing people reading, and fangirling, over this story. There are no words to express how much I appreciate the thoughtful and excited reviews I have received, the relentless begging for a continuation, the flailing and fangirling and never-ending love you've shown. Thank you all so much.

* * *

><p><em><span>Previously, on Our Serendipitous Paths<span>_

"_Then why not stay? What did you have in this other life that you would want to go back for?"_

_She took a deep, fortifying breath, but then she lifted his eyes up at him, and spoke the truth._

"_You, Castle. I had you." _

* * *

><p><em><strong>7: distinctive dichotomy<strong>_

He stared at her, stunned into silence, his eyes piercing, and her heart vaulted in her chest, shock setting in about what she just said. To this man, who wasn't-

"I… I shouldn't have said that," she backpedaled quickly, her voice unsteady, almost pleading while she hoped that she had not just scared away the only person she trusted with her inappropriate comment. He was married. _Married._

He was still staring; the silence between them heavy, and her throat was clogged with heartache, the taste of tears on her tongue. "I'm sorry."

"So we are…" He cleared his voice, waved a hand between them in a vague gesture. "I mean, you and he are… an item?"

"No," she admitted, caught the bewilderment in his eyes. "I mean, not yet. We're…" Kate dropped her head, staring at her fingers, kneaded together so hard that her knuckles turned white. She couldn't find any words that would explain the intricacies of their entangled lives.

"It's complicated."

"More complicated than this?" He asked incredulously. She looked up and stared at her, his eyebrows knitted together.

She sighed . "Good point." Suddenly feeling drained, out of words or coherent thought, she leaned her back against the bench, closed her eyes for a moment. The bright rays of the sun danced along her eyelids, sinking warm and yellow into her skin.

She heard his breath hitch in his chest, as if he was gasping for air, and she gathered her courage, looked back over at him. Yet instead of the doubt she expected to see etched into his features, the familiar twinkle had stolen into his eyes. He was _smirking_ at her.

It was so recognizable, so comforting, the mirth in his smile, the silent encouragement to not take herself too seriously that out of their own volition, the corners of her mouth quirked up.

"Stop it," she poked him in the shoulder admonishingly, "it's not funny." He winced, rubbed his shoulder but the grin was still firmly planted on his face, and even she couldn't keep the smile out of her voice. She glanced over at him once more from the side, and when their eyes caught, they both burst out in laughter.

The hilarity rolled through her in waves, laced with the ridiculousness, the incredulity that her life had become. The tension she had held inside for days poured out of her in roaring quakes until her sides hurt and tears streamed down her cheeks. She laughed and laughed and when it finally subsided she was left feeling weak; exhausted but her muscles were looser, the knots in her shoulders less tense.

She wiped the moisture off her cheeks with the back of her hand. "Maybe a little bit funny…"

She sank back against the bench, looking out into the trees in front of them, mirroring his position and they sat in silence for a while, only the combined sounds of their calming breaths between them.

Eventually she swiveled her head, watched his profile for a few moments, her eyes tracing the shape of his nose, his forehead. Her fingertips tingled, needing to trail along his eyebrow and down his cheek, his face at once familiar and strangely foreign to her. He noticed her staring, turned to look at her.

"Why do you believe me so easily?" She asked quietly, her voice serious once more.

"Didn't you expect me to believe you?"

"Yes," she acknowledged. The truth was that while she had worried about it, deep down in her heart she hadn't been able to fathom that he might not have believed her. "Well the Castle I know would have. But _you_ don't know me."

He winked at her, a glimpse of playful Castle shining through. "I have a thing for damsels in distress."

She snorted. "You do not. You like strong, self-assured women."

"And _that's_ why I believed you."

"What?"

"You were just… so instinctual, about everything." He looked at her, earnest, serious as he spoke, and she couldn't stop her heart from hammering in her chest. "The way you interacted with me, the sense of familiarity I got when you weren't censoring your words or your looks. How you just 'knew' Gina, more than just her name. How accustomed you were with my loft, the way you moved around, like you had been there before."

She shouldn't be surprised how closely he had been watching her every move, and yet she hadn't even noticed. She had been so focused on trying to be careful, inconspicuous and he had still seen right through her.

"It just… added up. And then of course I googled you," he continued, a small grin now lacing his voice. "Didn't find any incidents of disconcerting behavior, no criminal record or history of mental illness, so here we are."

"Yeah. Here we are." She sighed, smiling at him quietly for a few moments; allowed herself to feel the warmth of his presence, the comfort of him by her side. Without thinking she dropped her hand on top of his leg, her fingers squeezing his thigh, the relief a tangible, fluttery thing in her voice. "Thank you."

"Eh don't mention it." He gestured a hand through the air dismissively, winking at her. "I'm a sucker for a good story."

She grinned at the truth of that, but couldn't stop the harsh stab of sadness that lanced through her simultaneously. _Her _Castle would've entwined his fingers with hers, would've held her hand. She could almost feel the ghost of the comfort of his touch. She swallowed harshly.

"Tell me about your books."

The smile fell off his face, the same darkness that she had noticed earlier dimming the sparkle his eyes once more. An icy fist clamped around her heart and she clenched her fingers around his thigh subconsciously, watching him closely. Her touch seemed to draw him out of his reverie; he focused on her, his face relaxing incrementally.

"Well." He turned slightly more toward her, his body positioned in his 'storyteller pose' she was so achingly familiar with.

"My characters are Sean Lighthouse and John Ossining, homicide detectives at the NYPD. Based on Ryan and Esposito, as you know." He caught her eyes, gave her a small head nod before he continued his tale. "In the first book they get partnered together; neither is thrilled about it for various reasons but over the course of their cases they grow to trust each other, become true partners. There's love interests for each along the way, different issues, but the main thread of the series is the development, the journey of their 'bromance'." Here he made air quotes, hiked an eyebrow at her, and she smirked at him, wondered what the boys thought of that.

"The precinct calls them 'Lightning,' so the first book is titled _Lightning Storm_ and the second _Lightning Strikes Twice_."

"No third book yet?" Kate questioned, remembering _Heat Rises_ and that, in her universe, he was already working on his fourth installment of Nikki.

Castle's eyes turned stormy, dark blue and knitted brows, and he turned away, stared at the trees in the distance. He shook his head. "I'm writing on the third now, but I was… blocked," he admitted in a tortured voice.

Her heart hurt at his stark pain, dark ruthless strands that seemed to strangle his happiness and boyish excitement. Despite the warmth of the sun, chills crawled over her skin.

"What happened?" And then she remembered the other day; was that just yesterday? Espo and Lanie, Karpowski, but no- "Ryan?" Kate croaked, his name a question even though she suddenly, vividly knew.

He turned, lifted his eyes to her, pools of wretched, stormy blue. "He's dead, Kate."

She gasped, the rush of tears flooding her eyes, hot and unstoppable. Ryan… Oh God, her friend, her partner, her- brother.

Dropping his forearms to his thighs, Castle sat hunched over, dropped his head. "Got killed because of me," he continued, low and agonized. "Because of the books. It's my fault he's dead."

She couldn't breathe, felt like she was suffocating, her lungs squeezed tightly with the clogging pressure of tears and she dug her nails into her thighs, the pain stark, the only thing that still seemed to ground her. "What… I mean, how…," she stammered, gasped, the sorrow threatening to swallow her whole.

"Psychopath focused on them, sought them out, played with them like they were prey…" His voice was pained, disgusted, his fingers clenched together so rigidly that the knuckles turned white. "Espo was okay, but by the time they figured it all out, it was too late for Ryan. He had walked into a trap; got electrocuted. Hit by lightning, so to speak."

The words seemed to echo through the silence between them. Kate sucked in a harsh breath, painful as it expanded in her chest, trying to suppress the images that flooded her brain, trying _not_ to see the gruesome fate that had befallen Ryan. Hatred, boiling anger welled through her blood, for this world, this universe that had taken him away. Had taken away everything that made her _her_.

"I didn't even know." Castle's words drew her from her reverie, his voice lowered, resigned while he stared at his fingers, rubbing the pad of his thumb over the nail of the other in small circles, over and over again. "Had to find out from the paper." He spat out the last word with disgust, and she could only imagine how much the tabloids would've focused on the connection between his books and a psychotic serial killer.

"You weren't there?"

"No. I had stopped shadowing them months ago. I mean, we talked occasionally, but… you lose touch, you know." He kept kneading his fingers and suddenly she couldn't stop herself, she reached over and cradled her palm over his hands, needed to feel the warmth of his skin, a tangible connection. It seemed to center him and he drew a deep breath into his lungs, finally looked at her again.

"I went to his funeral. And then I couldn't write. I never intended to put either of them in harm's way but he died because of me, because I put them in the spotlight. I was drowning; couldn't forgive myself for my arrogance, insinuating myself into their lives like that."

She didn't think she had ever heard Castle sound quite as defeated and her heart felt cracked open. She wanted nothing more than to wrap her arms around him, draw his wide chest against her, drown in his embrace. "What changed?"

"His girlfriend, Jenny, met with me one day, told me how much he had loved my books, how proud he had been to be a part of them, how he wouldn't blame me, wouldn't want me to quit."

The corner of her mouth quirked up at that, recalling the sweet connection that had always been palpable between Jenny and Ryan, and how well the young woman had known him, even though their relationship must've been much fresher when he died. The thought froze her once more.

"And Gina," he continued, and Kate blinked up at him in surprise. "She's my editor too, oh but I guess you know that?" She nodded. "Yeah. She kicked my ass in gear, pushed me through… She was there when I needed someone. It helped, you know?" He remained contemplative for a moment; she wondered if he expected an answer from her but she had nothing. "We got remarried a few months after that."

Remarried? So even in this life they had been divorced before. Suddenly it occurred to her that she could never figure out what had really drawn him back to Gina; what happened in their realm that made him need to hold on to her? Her heart hammered, the thoughts wild in her mind, speculative as she recalled his offer to the Hamptons so shortly before. She ruthlessly pushed the idea from her mind, couldn't fathom… Not here, not now where he wasn't hers.

"It wasn't your fault, you know." She squeezed his hand, her tone insistent as gave him what she had, what she knew to be the truth. What she had told him before, when they were _them_.

He tilted his head at her, acknowledging her words. "I know. Now. I realized that had it not been for the books, the killer would have simply fixated on other victims. Might still be out there killing people, with a lesser team of detectives working the case. So I'm writing again. To honor them with my words."

She nodded, a soft smile widening her mouth almost automatically at the steely determination in his voice. So much of this felt eerily familiar that she consciously had to remind herself where she was.

"You know, in my universe," she admitted, needing to give him this. "You were the one who figured it out in time, and _you _saved my life."

He stared at her for a moment, his eyes so clear and blue that her heart tumbled, her skin prickled. A smile spread slowly across his face, tentative and tender, all heart, and her breath got caught in her chest. "Really?"

A nod was all she could manage. "Yeah."

His smile turned brighter, pleased, and finally he turned his hand over to hold hers within his grasp, grazed his thumb over her knuckles. "Thank you."

It gave her whiplash, the dichotomy of this moment, when instead of Kate thanking him for saving her life, he thanked her for giving him words.

She stared, couldn't stop staring at the spark of his eyes, the wide, inviting slant of his mouth, felt the air prickle between them, hot and charged, her head drawing closer.

He cleared his throat, drew away and her mind cleared at the same instant, flashing with bright warning signs. Shit, no.

"I bet Gates just loved that," he broke the silence, his voice raspy at first but firmer as he went on. "Me this close on a case with you?"

Her mind stumbled, trying to keep up with the unraveling thread. "Gates?"

"Yeah, she always kept a very tight lid on me. Barely ever let me out into the field with the boys."

But no, how? "What about Captain Montgomery?"

"Montgomery?" He looked at her questioningly. "I don't know a- oh wait!" He pulled his phone out of his pocket, started tapping at the screen. "Let me look real quick…"

Her mind was turning, her stomach already roiling with nausea; this didn't make sense.

"Oh here, yeah." Castle turned back toward her, pointing at his phone. "I knew I had heard that name before. He was killed in action a couple of years ago. Big story on the news. How several people had shot each other at some hangar. He was the Captain at the 8th Precinct, I think…"

He trailed off, concerned eyes now focused on her but this was too much, she couldn't… This made no sense, for him to be dead unless-

She jumped off the bench as if burned, cinched the belt of her trench coat tightly around her waist, at once flighty, impatient, desperate. "Castle I've gotta go."

"What?" He stood up as well, facing her with worry in his eyes. "Kate?"

"I'm sorry," she stammered, but the churning of her brain wouldn't calm, overwhelming her with dark questions, the unstoppable force of the quest. She needed to figure out, to know… She lifted her eyes to him, hoped he would understand, find the apology that her words were incapable to justly convey. "I'm okay, it's just... I _have_ to go."

* * *

><p>The world was a blur as it flew by the windows of the cab. Kate was staring at the race of buildings, lights and billboards, unseeing while she mentally catalogued, collected evidence, tried to swallow the roll of anxiety, the leaps of intrigue jumping in her blood. The ride was blissfully quick and she paid the cabbie, walked back into the university building. She had to force her feet not to run to reach the library.<p>

She knew she'd find a wealth of information through the library's database and so she signed in to the system, began the hunt. She started with Montgomery's shooting, tapped into the various articles that she discovered related to the tragedy from the more reputable newspapers but there was nothing in them that she didn't already know. It had all happened in this world just as it had in hers, the same players left dead, gunned down in an airplane hangar with no clues, no leads, at least none that were reported.

Nothing of this made sense. If her mother didn't get killed, why did Montgomery die? She took a breath, tried to organize her thoughts into a timeline. She supposed that the mafia kidnappings must have happened years before just the same, the corrupt ring of cops bending justice to their whim, but if her mother was not the one to look into it, _die _for it, then how had it ever come to light again? Why the shooting, the sacrifice?

She went back in time, searched for the names of all the players she knew, Raglan and McAllister, Bob Armen and Pulgatti, then she moved on to the hired killers, Coonan, Lockwood, even Maddox though she knew it was just an assumed name. Her eyes flew over the lines, raced across article after article; she read and read, clicked through every new source that popped up but there was frustratingly little to find.

On a whim, she searched the database for stabbings, narrowed down her search to the first months of 1999. And then it she found it, a small report; she almost missed it because it would seem insignificant to anybody but her: George Stevens, only 26 years old, a young lawyer barely out of law school, who worked for Legal Aid, had been stabbed in an alley in January 1999. The murder was chalked up to random gang violence.

She choked on the knowledge, tried to breathe through the nausea. So someone _had_ looked into Pulgatti's case, someone had been killed just the same, only this time, it hadn't been her mother. Only one pawn had been moved differently in this random game of life, and all their existences were different, everything had changed.

The players were dead just the same.

No new leads.

The frustration rolled through her, like boulders that flattened her tenacity; she had been hoping, didn't realize how desperately she had been clinging to the hope that she might glean something new, a different bit of information, just a small piece that would maybe, just maybe point her to a new direction, give her a new lead in her mom's case but there was so much less here, and what little information she could unearth gave her nothing new either, nothing tangible.

She pushed off the chair, ran toward the nearest window and pulled it open, deeply inhaling the fresh spring air that streamed inside, tried to breathe, just breathe. To calm the ragged edges of her disappointment, the unending hopelessness of her quest.

And then it hit her, and how could she have forgotten, even for one moment, that this wasn't her mother's case. Her mom wasn't dead! She was alive, happy at home just across town, and why was she sitting here, trying to solve this case yet again, and missing this, missing _life_?

Kate realized she was done. For once she no longer cared; it didn't matter who the Dragon was or if there even was a mysterious man in the background pulling the strings, she wanted to move past this, move on. She wanted to be done.

She went back to the desktop, closed file after file with almost meticulous precision, and logged out of the system.

* * *

><p><em>TBC<em>


End file.
